


Objects In The Rear View Mirror

by Schmiezi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, EMP Theory, Eventual Romance, Fix-It, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary Is a bad person, Mentioning of Main Character Death, Mentioning of Main Character Death Again and Again, POV Alternating, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Season/Series 04, Really Lots of Angst, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sickfic, Trauma, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2019-10-18 04:25:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17573840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schmiezi/pseuds/Schmiezi
Summary: Part 1: Fifteen DaysWhen Sherlock wakes up from fifteen days of induced coma, the world he wakes up to is not what he thought it would be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a fix-it for S4, following the ideas of the EMP theory that says that parts of the show have only happened in Sherlock's mind. A more detailed summary will follow later to avoid spoilers for now.
> 
> Many many thanks to my wonderful betas GoSherlocked and katzedecimal. I am so glad to have you aboard once more!

Part 1 "Fifteen Days"

It felt like being covered with snow, and for a moment Sherlock honestly wondered how he could have been hit by an avalanche without remembering leaving London. He was not breathing properly, and it was cold, and he had absolutely no idea where he was. 

His brain refused to deduce the sounds from the surrounding. The only thing it granted him was the fact that there was smell. Why was that strange? He wanted to open his eyes, desperately, but his body did not obey. 

He could sense motion, and touch, somebody squeezing his hand, and then there was some noise. A voice washing over him, warm and gentle and protecting. John.

A memory pierced through Sherlock's brain like a lightning. John beating him up at the hospital. Painful, not just to the body. The feeling of betrayal and fear, even though he had gambled for it to happen.

It lasted for only for a second or two. John must have moved closer, for his voice was louder now, though still just a background noise, not something to make sense of. The smell of his after shave was hanging in the air. Why was that so important? 

He could sense concern in John's voice, hidden underneath the soothing sound. He tried to move again, and finally one of his little fingers obeyed. It was a mistake, for John's voice stopped instantly. The coldness around him felt even colder without that voice. 

Then it came back, more exciting now. Sherlock tried hard to understand him but failed. So many defeats. It was exhausting and frustrating, and Sherlock tried to slip back into unconsciousness, but John's voice did not let him go. It was tearing at his mind, holding him in its grip, not allowing him to fade away again.

"Let me go," he tried to say, but felt something heavy inside his mouth that was restricting his tongue. What was it? Panic was rising again. With tremendous effort, Sherlock finally managed to open his eyes. 

The world was blurry, shifting in and out of focus again and again. There was a figure leaning over him, talking to him, touching him. John? Sherlock concentrated on him, and really, when his vision became better he recognized him. There was something wrong with him except the smell, something about his hair, but Sherlock could not focus on that. He was too busy to fully regain consciousness. 

"Take it easy," he heard John say. "Everything is all right."

Good. Sherlock willingly obeyed. He relaxed a little, waiting for his strength to return, did not try to speak for a while. If John said everything was all right, it was.

Who was taking care of Rosie right now? Sherlock looked at John more closely. He had dark circles underneath his eyes and something was wrong with his hair. He was concerned, and something was wrong with his hair, and relieved. His hands were out of sign, but it must be him who was holding Sherlock's hand right now, for there was no-one else in the room. 

Ha, his deduction skills were slowly coming back. John's hair was still bothering him for no reason at all, and so was his after shave, but that would surely be settled later on.

Then it hit him with brute force. John's hair. It was all wrong. Too short. Not grey enough. And then Sherlock 's brain leaped into action again with full speed. John had been spending all his time in this hospital room for a long time. Barely took the time to shave, wore un-ironed shirts. Surely had also not left the room long enough to see a hair stylist.

His wrinkles were gone too. John was young.

A hundred questions tried to make their way out of his head. Was this the after life? Was he dead? And worse, was John dead? What the hell was going on?

When Sherlock tried to voice his questions, he couldn't. Something was blocking his tongue, made him choke, made him lose it completely. In panic he wanted to reach for whatever it was that was stuck in his throat but still barely had any control over his body. He felt his hand clumsily bumping against something, could not get a grip on it.

"Easy Sherlock" he heard John say, a bit sharper now. "you are still intubated. It's all right. You are safe!"

The panic refused to go away. To his shame, Sherlock felt tears roll down his face. He felt John's hand on his cheek.

"Really Sherlock, it's all right. You have been in a coma for almost three weeks. Take it easy. I'm here. You are safe."

Exhaustion washed over him, forcing his eyes to close again. The only thing he could do right now was to hold on to John's hand. He held it, cling to it like to a life line.

John squeezed back, and that was the most reassuring thing of it all. John was here. No matter what had happened and where they were, John was here. With a huge wave of relief Sherlock let go, slipped back to sleep. The last thing he perceived was the smell of John's after shave.

*** 

The last three days had been hell. Sherlock had not responded well to the doctors attempt to bring him out of the induced coma, had reacted with fear and violence every time he was semi-aware of what was happening around him. So when he stirred, John came to full attention instantly.

“It's all right, you're safe, Sherlock,” he said, with his best soothing doctor's voice. He watched Sherlock closely, ready to jump into action should it be necessary. “You're in hospital, nobody will harm you.”

It was not clear what Sherlock had thought was going on around him during the last three days, but judging from his reactions it was not a nice place he had been in. John looked at him closely, searching for signs of trouble, but this time, there were none. 

John allowed himself to relax a little. Stopping Sherlock from pulling all kinds of tubes out of his body had been terrible. This time, he only reached for his mouth, as if searching for something.

“You were taken off ventilation yesterday,” John helped out. And what a fight that had been. 

Sherlock looked at him quizzically, but with bright eyes, and now John relaxed even more. For the first time since the whole insanity had started, he recognized the man who was looking at him. 

“What year is it?” John heard him whisper. His voice was still heavily affected by being on ventilation for so long.

“I should ask you that question, you know?” he replied and could not help but smile.

Sherlock's face darkened. “You would not like the answer,” he said and closed his eyes for a moment.

John frowned. “It's still 2014,” he told Sherlock, still making sure he sounded absolutely soothing. “You have been in an induced coma for fifteen days and needed another three to fully wake up from it.” When the darkness on Sherlock's face only deepened, he asked, “What year did you think it was?”

He watched Sherlock's pale face flush a little. “2016,” he whispered. 

John nodded, not quite sure what to say. They would deal with it, later. His first priority was to make sure Sherlock was all right and felt safe. 

The next important thing of course was finding out if Sherlock knew who had done that to him, but when it came to Sherlock, John would always be doctor first. And doctor John Watson could not bring himself to ask a traumatised patient about being shot into the chest three minutes after waking up from being in a coma for fifteen days.

So instead, he watched Sherlock closing his eyes again, taking a little rest. He looked a bit troubled, a frown on his forehead, the corners of his mouth drooping a bit. He looked alive. 

A wave of tremendous joy surged through John all of a sudden. He had spent two weeks watching Sherlock's slack face, with no sign of life in it, and for two weeks he had not been sure if Sherlock would -

Even now he could not bring himself to think the unthinkable. But he didn't have to. Sherlock had woken up, and he would be fine. 

Kind of. After a certainly long healing process, yes, but they could take it one step at a time. Sherlock was back, that was all that mattered. A heavy tiredness fell over John. He really should get some sleep soon.

Just when he thought that Sherlock must have fallen asleep again, he heard his hoarse voice, “Why am I in hospital?”

John pushed the idea of sleep aside. “You got shot,” he said gently.

There was nothing but confusion on Sherlock's face. “Again?”

Silently, John cursed himself. Apparently, Sherlock was still not able to tell dream from reality. “This is the only time you got shot, as far as I know” he explained patiently. 

Sherlock fell silent once more, seemingly lost in thought. John did nothing to disturb him, After a while, Sherlock blinked. “In Magnussen's office?” he whispered, and John nodded.

“Yes, do you remember?” 

It was clear that Sherlock's mind was working hard now, without coming to an appropriate result. He looked vulnerable that way, and involuntarily John squeezed his hand. 

In that very second, the door of Sherlock's room opened, and Mary came in. Not quite knowing why, John let go of Sherlock's hand quickly and moved back a little. 

Mary looked from John to Sherlock and back to John. “How is it going today?” she asked then. 

John managed to smile. “A lot better,” he answered. “I think we've got him back.”

Mary beamed back at him. “Oh John, that is wonderful. Sherlock, how are you?”

She came closer to the bed, and when John stepped back a little to make room for her, he saw it. 

Sherlock flinched at the sight of her. Just slightly, but it was definitely a flinch. That alone would not have been a reason to worry. Sherlock must have been through real nightmares in his mind, and could not yet tell what was true and what wasn't. 

No, the truly scary thing was that John saw Mary noticing it, and that there was a pleased look on her face, just for a second.

“Do you remember who shot you?” she asked him, leaning very close to him. Was there an unspoken threat in her voice? John needed to take a deep breath. Impossible. He was surely just imagining things. The last fifteen days had been hard on him too, and he was tired to the bone.

Sherlock looked at her, then his eyes flickered to John, also only for a second. “No,” he said then. 

Mary looked disappointed, but there was something wrong about her expression, something false. She leaned even closer towards Sherlock, looming over him now. “That's a shame,” she mused. “There is no footage from the shooting, no eye witness … We will probably never learn who did that to you.”

She and Sherlock regarded each other for a moment, then Sherlock broke eye contact. “Unfortunately so,” he whispered. 

John watched Mary's shoulders relax a little. This could not be happening, could it?

“Will you be home for dinner, John?” Mary smiled at him and continued, “With Sherlock finally getting better, you could grant yourself the luxury of coming home again, right?”

Feeling like a child caught stealing cookies, John cleared his throat to buy himself some time. Then he said, “Yeah, sure. Just … give me a few moments, will you?” He hastily added, “I'll be home for dinner, promise.”

Mary regarded him carefully, and John did his best to look absolutely innocent. Then she smiled. “See you at dinner then, love,” she said, pecked his cheek and left.

John watched her leave, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he knew exactly what to do next.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my great beta reader GoSherlocked, and a special hug to katzedecimal. Thank you for many years of wonderful beta reading. You were fantastic.
> 
> This chaper includes a few lines I would have loved to see on screen.

John went to the window. “Let's let the sunshine in, right?” he said to Sherlock, and did not wait for his answer before pulling the curtain back. He needed to see Mary leave. 

“John?” he heard Sherlock whisper.

“Just a moment,” John said. After a while, he saw Mary crossing the hospital's car park. He watched her enter the car and drive away. Then he turned around to face Sherlock.

The detective's face fell when their eyes met. He could surely see the anger boiling inside of John. “So it was her,” John stated, not leaving room for excuses or lies. 

Sherlock looked away. “Yes,” he whispered after a while.

John felt like somebody was pulling at his legs. His whole world was just turning upside down. Somehow his mind refused to believe it. And yet …

“Why?” he asked exasperated. Maybe she had a good reason, maybe … 

But there was no good reason for shooting Sherlock, was there? It was insanity.

“She was in Magnussen's office to threaten or kill him,” Sherlock explained softly. “I don't know why. She was wearing a professional assassin's outfit, but had not covered her face. When I offered to help with whatever it was that drove her there, she shot me.”

There was pain on Sherlock's face, and not only from talking. John could feel the betrayal in that shot. His anger only grew deeper.

He stepped closer to Sherlock, sat down again in the chair he had spent the better part of the last eighteen days in. It was unbelievable. Anger and pain mixed in his stomach. “I am sorry,” he whispered. 

Sherlock gave him the most curious look. “What for?” he asked.

John looked up in surprise. “Well, for ...her. I was the one who brought her into our lives. If I hadn't married her...”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock dismissed that thought. “Let us rather think of how to forgive her.”

John felt his jaw drop. He stared at Sherlock for a long, long time.

“What?” he said then. 

Sherlock looked back at John with an expression that reminded John of a little child. Innocent. Completely naïve. “She is your wife,” he explained, “You love her and we need to ...”

“No way,” John hissed. 

When Sherlock opened his mouth again, most likely to keep discussing the topic, John quickly went on, “There is no way I will forgive her. Do you know what she did to you?”

Sherlock looked down his body towards the wound in his chest. “Of course,” he answered as smugly as possible in his situation. “She shot me in the chest.”

John shook his head. “Sherlock, no, really. You don't know the extent of that shot.” He took a deep breath and explained, “The bullet went through one of your ribs, your lung, your liver, your right phrenic nerve and your right rectus abdominis muscle. Each and every of these caused further complications, including a dangerous cardiac tamponade that made your heart stop for a while. You will suffer from all this for months.”

For some reason, John had to blink while listing up all the damage done to Sherlock's body. Must have been the sweat or something. He drew another deep breath to give the finer details of all complications but when he looked at Sherlock, he stopped himself. 

It was clear that Sherlock was trying to process what he had just heard. John could see his mind racing. There had been days when he thought he would never see that brilliant mind at work again. 

“I ran a simulation in my mind while I was out,” Sherlock said after a while. 

John regarded him curiously. “What kind of simulation?” he asked. The painful expression on Sherlock's face stirred something inside him. 

“Of how to go on after being shot. It covered a span of about two and a half years and included us forgiving Mary.” 

John wanted to answer to that but Sherlock went on, “In it, I had deduced that Mary had shot me in exactly that spot simply to buy herself time. I called it surgery because she was such a crack shot that she was able to aim at the very spot that would incapacitate me without killing me.”

John felt dead tired all of a sudden. He stood up from his chair and sat down on Sherlock's bed instead. “Please believe me,” he said, only vaguely aware of the fact that he was reaching out for Sherlock's hand. “This shot will cause you pain and misery for months to come. It almost killed you. If she really is such a crack shot, she has aimed at a spot to leave you with maximum pain for a long time, probably causing permanent damage to your body.”

They looked at each other for a long time. “But you love her,” Sherlock tried again, this time sounding more lost than ever before.

“Love does not always last forever,” John explained gently. “I might have loved her, yes, but I no longer do. Not after what she did to you.”

He watched Sherlock think about it. “I would have forgiven her for your sake,” he heard him whisper then. 

John nodded, not sure what to say. “You don't have to,” he offered after a while.

Now that Sherlock was convinced, the gravity of it all fell onto John like a bag full of bricks. Mary had shot Sherlock. She had willingly harmed him, and badly, almost causing his death. And then she had been holding vigil at Sherlock's bed by John's side, pretending to care for Sherlock, pretending to hope he'd recover. Had she been hoping he would die so he would take her secret with him into his grave?

His thoughts were disturbed when a nurse came into the room. “Mr. Holmes, it is so good to see you awake again,” she said and smiled. She started to follow a routine check-up.

Sherlock eyed her curiously. “You were in my simulation,” he told her. “Your voice, at least. But I thought you'd be a brunette.”

If she found his comment strange, she did not let it show. “I am dyeing my hair blonde,” she explained, still smiling, and then added, “The real world of ICU often influences the dreams of coma patients. We have been writing what we call a coma diary for you. With it, you can compare your dreams with what was really happening around you. You'll get it when you feel a little better.”

She had just left the room when a doctor came in with a few more nurses. They gently shoved John aside and began to examine Sherlock thoroughly.

One of them started to explain Sherlock's injuries again in great detail, but John saw that Sherlock was not listening to him. Never mind, he would go through it with Sherlock again later. The examination went on, even though Sherlock was not paying attention any longer.

Feeling slightly dispensable right now, John took that moment to go outside. He found his right hand toying with his mobile. Mary had shot Sherlock. One last time, he listened to his feelings, questioning his own determination. No, there was no way back to her.

He dialled Mycroft's number, and when the other man answered the call, John said, “Sherlock is finally awake. And he knows who shot him.”

Afterwards, John felt no regret at all. Just the liberating feeling of doing the right thing.

When Sherlock's examination was over, John sneaked back into the room. There was not much talking, for Sherlock was tired, and John emotionally exhausted. It was a comfortable silence though, reminding John of past days at Baker Street. 

Less than an hour after calling Mycroft John received a short text from him. "Arrest successful" it read. "Contact me for further details if needed." 

John did not need them, not for now. He continued sitting by Sherlock's bed until late at night, watching his friend sleep for a long time before reluctantly returning to his empty home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help! I am looking for a new beta reader. Please leave a comment if you are interested. :-)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many thanks to GoSherlocked for staying with me on this project and katzedecimal for all her help in the past! :-)

John fumbled with his keys before he managed to open the door to his house as he always did. It was dark inside, and quiet. He sighed when he turned on the lights. There were no signs of a fight. Mycroft's team must have taken Mary by surprise, or they cleaned up afterwards.

He was completely unsuspicious when he entered the kitchen. His steps were slow, no doubt he was tired from all that had happened that day. He got himself a glass from the cupboard, then went to the sink to pour some water in it.

”You really wanted to turn me in just like that?”

The glass fell down onto the floor tiles and smashed into a thousand pieces. John stared at Mary wordlessly.

She came closer, watching the broken pieces on ground with disgust and went on, “�I would have expected you to talk to me at least. Let me explain. Or give me a chance to react properly.”� She glanced over to the living room. ”Some good people had to die here today because of you. Did you know that, John?”

He looked over to the living room too. A body seemed to be lying on the floor, covered with the blanket that used to lie on the sofa. It was light blue with a floral pattern.

John looked back at Mary and his eyes fell onto the knife she was holding in her hand. You could see his mind racing, the soldier in him searching for the best way out. ”Good,” he said then, ”explain. Why did you shoot him?”

Mary shook her head. ”Too little too late, John,” she spat.

He clenched his hands, ready to fight, but started one more attempt to talk to the woman he used to love, ”Maybe we can -”

She moved so fast that even John did not stand a chance. In one swift move she closed the gap between them pressing herself against his body. John's eyes widened in surprise, his mouth falling open. When she took a step backwards again, she was covered in his blood.

John swayed, leaning against the sink, still unable to say a word. He looked at the wound the knife has torn into his belly, then at Mary and the bloody knife in her hand. A soft moan of pain escaped his throat.

“Take your time,John,” she said with a mockingly sweet voice, ”I have no other plans for tonight except watching you bleeding out!”

He paled, watching more and more blood running down onto the white tiles of the kitchen floor. His breathing became heavier. “Mary,” he whispered in pain. Then his legs buckled, and he fell into a pool of his own blood.

She looked down at him, pity in her eyes. ”You even die like a wimp.”

John cringed in pain, his soft moaning turning into feral sounds of death. It was clear that he was fighting for his life, and losing. One of his legs was twitching, like it was trying to escape.

His eyes lost their focus, his head sank onto the ground. Slowly, very slowly you could see him giving in. His body buckled one last time when he heaved a surge of blood. Then his head lolled to the side, and his eyes lost their life.

John was dead.

* * *

Sherlock was only partially aware that he was screaming. John was dead. A knowledge so cruel and painful that he could barely process it. His cheeks felt wet but he did not care. John was dead. His absence turned the world into an empty space, the cold chilling Sherlock right to the bones. He would never be warm again in a world without John.

He registered that there was a nurse by his side, and he knew she was talking to him but it was so much nonsense that he tuned her out. John was dead. He heard himself crying but what else was there to do now? With no reason to stop he sobbed like child, mourning the loss of John, the loss of everything they were and everything they would never be now.

When he closed his eyes in pain he saw John again, dying on the kitchen floor, on the tiles Sherlock had chosen for them. He cried even harder, for hours and hours. Then there was movement in the room. The nurse stepped aside, and someone else was there but it made no sense so he tuned out that person too.

Or so he tried. It was hard because that person moved closer to him, talked to him, touched him. The loneliness was about to swallow him when that person took him into their arms. It felt warm there and smelled like John, and that made the loss even worse.

A gentle voice was washing over Sherlock, soothing him. He could not stop crying, but what had been a hysteric sobbing became a sad wailing. ”There, there,” he heard, and, ”You'll be fine.”

A hand was gently stroking his back, incessantly. It felt as if all the strength Sherlock has ever had was leaving his body now. He finally gave in, leaned into the embrace, too tired to fight it any more.

Whoever the person was, they smelled just like John.

Somewhere, in the mostly unexplored back of his mind, a very little gear started to turn. All those dreams he had, during his coma, the entire simulation of what would be, everything he had made up in his mind had lacked one thing: smell. He had not smelled the air inside the plane, not the dirt on the street of old Baker Street, not Mary's perfume when she had died.

Now, on the other hand, there was disinfectant in the air, and the perfume one of the nurses always used, and - and John. Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose. Not just John's after-shave, but also the smell of his cleaning agent and his shampoo and the very essence of his body odour.

When John had died in his kitchen a few hours ago, there had been no smell at all. Not even when the whole place was covered in blood.

And how had it been possible for Sherlock to observe it, by the way? He had not been there with John and Mary, and yet he had seen it all. Impossible.

The stroking of his back continued, and the voice, John's voice, kept on talking to him. ”... just a dream. It was just a dream. I am fine.”

He became painfully aware of the situation he was in now. John was holding him in his arms, rocking him like a child, while Sherlock was wetting his shirt with tears and drool. There was no dignified way out of this.

When he was sure that he had finally stopped crying completely, he cleared his throat a little. John reacted instantly, moving back a little, giving Sherlock space to sit upright on his own. Their eyes met and Sherlock felt himself blush deeply. He was at a loss of words.

Thank God John was not. ”The ketamine used to induce your coma is still running through your system,” he explained gently. ”Hallucinations or vivid nightmares like that can go on for another two or three weeks.”

Sherlock wiped away the last of his tears from the corner of his eyes. He nodded. Then he saw the darkness through the window of his room. ”What time is it?” he wondered.

”Must be a bit after four in the morning,” John answered, ignoring everything that was awkward about their situation. He was perfect.

”Hadn't you gone home for the night?” Sherlock continued. His brain was not working properly, he realised, but John did not mind at all.

“I had, yes. They called me when they could not shake you out of this nightmare.” And John had come here in the middle of the night without hesitation, no doubt. Sherlock felt grateful beyond words.

”Thank you,” he tried a bit stiffly.

John gave him a half-smile, ”You are welcome.”

Yes, he was. That knowledge warmed Sherlock again. He lay down on the bed, allowed John to cover him with the horrible hospital blanket, and slowly drifted into a dreamless sleep. John would be there when he'd wake up, very much alive. There was absolutely no need to worry about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still looking for a native speaker to become my new beta / proofreader. 
> 
>  
> 
> 1butterfly_grl1, how can I contact you?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets a bit medical now. I still don't understand how to link other works here but most of the medical stuff was inspired by the work of cookieswillcrumble, "Let's Play Murder". Thank you so much for the great work!

John watched Sherlock slip back into sleep. He dutifully put the oxygen mask back on Sherlock's face before he settled back into the too familiar chair next to his bed. The adrenalin that had been rushing through his body ever since the phone had rung at three in the morning was now subsiding. He felt dead tired and incredibly old.

For a moment, he allowed himself to watch Sherlock sleep. He looked peaceful, even with the deep circles underneath his eyes, and very very fragile. John knew that it was normal for coma patients to lose body mass. Yet, the memory of holding Sherlock's thin body a moment ago bothered him deeply. There was not much left to hold, really.

Well, Sherlock would get better soon. He would recover from his multiple injuries, rebuild his muscles, hopefully get rid of the oxygen mask, and then -

And then what? During the last fifteen days, his thinking had been dominated by hoping Sherlock would wake up at all. Then, when he had had problems coming back from coma, there had been no time to wonder about the future. And now -

Now that John's world was turned upside down, he had no idea what the future would hold. Or what he wanted it to hold. All he knew was that Sherlock would be kind of fine somehow, and for now, that would have to be enough.

John leaned back in the semi-comfortable chair and sighed. He had really looked forward to spending a night in his own bed, even if it meant being reminded of his lying wife whenever he felt the deserted left side of the bed.

Mary. Or whoever she was. He wanted to think about it further, consider what to feel about her now, but his brain downright refused to. A wave of tiredness swept over him and dragged him into a dreamless, restless slumber.

*** 

„John!" Sherlock woke with a start. Only this time he was aware that he had just had a nightmare. His eyes settled on John who was waking up in the chair next to the hospital bed. No wounds, no scorch marks. Yes, just a bad dream.

"Good morning, John!" Sherlock said as casually as possible, as if he was not wearing an oxygen mask that muffled his words, and as if he had not woken John with a scream caused by another nightmare. John, tired exhausted John, did not buy his nonchalance for a second.

"Are you all right?" he asked, eyes apparently still heavy from the little sleep he had had.

Sherlock nodded quickly before asking himself the very same question. Was he all right? He felt weak and shaken, but at least he wasn't in pain. How much painkiller did they actually give him, by the way? He tried to look at the pain pump but the monitor was turned away so he could not get a look at the display.

"It's quite a lot," John offered, guessing his unspoken question. Just like the old days, Sherlock thought. And then he realised his mistake. Not like the old days. Like reality. This was real life in which John had never stopped understanding Sherlock's unspoken questions.

In real life, John had never turned away from Sherlock. He had never abandoned him at Emilia Ricoletti's grave. He had never forgiven Mary. He had never beaten Sherlock so violently that Sherlock needed to be hospitalised.

A tremendous joy filled him. He liked reality a lot better than the world he had lived in for those fifteen days. His eyes met John's, and they both smiled. They would be all right, Sherlock knew that for sure.

The moment stretched, none of them breaking eye contact. Just when Sherlock started to ask himself if it was getting awkward, there was a knock on the door.

A young doctor was standing there. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Very good to see you awake. I would like to go through your condition with you, would that be all right?"

Sherlock gave him a second look. He was single, owned a little furry pet, a guinea pig or a chinchilla, rode his bike a lot in his fee time and voted for the Labour Party because his parents were part of the working class.

What a relief to find his deduction skills still intact. Sherlock refrained from saying any of it loud. There was no need to impress the man. "You are younger than me," he commented instead.

"And yet, I am well experienced. Which only shows how old you are, Mr. Holmes", the doctor answered without batting an eye. Then he stretched out his hand. "Dr. Benjamin Davies, I'll be your attending physician for the next weeks."

Sherlock shook his hand rather weakly, but with satisfaction. "You are not intimidated by me," he said, and added, "That's good. I have no need for a coward at the moment."

“He won't get any more polite than that,” John quipped, and for some absurd reason, it made Sherlock feel happy again. Just like the old days.

“Okay,” Dr Davies said, “Let's get you into an upright position so you can take off the oxygen mask!” He pushed a button at the side of Sherlock's bed and the bed-head was slowly going up. When it stopped in the right place, John helped Sherlock settle into a comfortable position and took off the oxygen mask. Breathing was easier now, he realised. There was something John had said about it yesterday but he could not remember. Well, the doctor would surely get to it soon.

“No sitting up just yet?” Sherlock asked instead. He remembered hanging in John's arms last night after his nightmare but had no clear memories of how he had gotten there. A panic-driven surge of adrenaline, most likely.

“Well, that takes us to one of the things we need to discuss,” Dr Davies told him, sounding very professional and not the slightest bit pitiful. “You have lost 24 pounds of muscle mass during coma, which is a pretty normal amount.”

Sherlock exchanged a quick glance with John who nodded in wordless agreement.

“So, if you feel weak or think that you lack the strength to sit up or hold a cup of tea on your own, well, that's because you are weak,” the doctor went on. “You will get a special training to rebuild your muscles, of course. Usually, the body reacts to it very quickly.”

Dr Davies made a little break to let the implications settle in and went on, “Well, let's follow the way of the bullet. First, it hit your 5th right rib, shattering it so badly we needed to insert a metal plate to stabilise it.”

No matter how much Sherlock tried to avoid it, he could not stop himself from seeing what Davies was talking about. In his mind he watched the bullet leaving the gun and hitting the chest of another version of himself in slow motion. It happened against a white background, and to make it more obvious, his torso was naked. When the bullet entered his body, the skin, muscles and other tissues were fading out, revealing the rib that got smashed into a myriad of bone splinters when the projectile went through it.

“I see,” he said, meaning it exactly like that. John gave him a little frown which he ignored. “I suppose the plate will have to be taken out again at some point?”

Davies nodded. “Yes, but that will not happen in the near future, as the plate won't interfere with your healing process right now.”

Sherlock reached for his chest to feel the scar, only to find his torso still wrapped up in bandages. He sighed. That was annoying. He needed to touch it to get a grip on what had happened.

“After that, it caused two major wounds,” the doctor went on, “The bullet hit you at an unfortunate entrance angle that allowed it to rupture both your lung and your liver, causing heavy internal bleeding.”

Sherlock watched it in his mind. The shattered rib faded out too to give him a good look at his organs. He observed the projectile travelling through them, tearing open the tissue, making blood starting to flow. He had to swallow.

“The blood filled your chest very quickly, causing a cardiac tamponade that stopped your heart for a while.” Davies paused for a moment.

Sherlock took the time to look at the model of himself in his mind. He was lying on the operating table now, hearing the surgeon talking about his heart no longer beating. Was it a memory or imagination? No matter what, the scene clearly differed from the one he had made up in his coma.

Sherlock remembered seeing himself lying on a similar operating table, the surgeons stepping back from him, already taking off their gloves. It had been that moment when his inner Moriarty had reminded him of John being in danger, causing Sherlock to fight, and defeat, death. It had been a very important moment in the construct of reality he used to live in for a while. The thought that it did not match with reality bothered him deeply.

“During that operation,” he asked, trying to stop his voice from shaking, “was there any moment in which they thought I would not make it?”

Davies looked at him curiously. “Well, it looked grim for a while, but from the report the main surgeon wrote later I take it that they stopped the bleeding rather quickly and then managed to shock your heart into working again.”

Sherlock felt his stomach clench. So it had not been his love for John that had made his heart beat again, it had been the electric pulse given to him by a surgeon. In his mind, he watched the scene wind back until the surgeons were standing over him again, this time with a defibrillator standing by.

“The good thing is that both wounds were closed and will heal without any further action needed,” Davies explained patiently. “You will need to take special breathing exercises for several reasons, but I'll come to that later on.”

Sherlock exchanged another quick look with John. The damage he was learning about right now was severe. What else was there? John glanced back reassuringly, or rather as reassuringly as he was able to. For a moment, Sherlock felt the irrational wish to end the briefing here and now. This was so much to take in already. How was he supposed to face even more?

“Please go on,” he said instead, hoping the others would not hear the quiver in his voice.

Davies went on very clinically which helped a lot. “There are some minor injuries like a rectus sheath haematoma where the bullet hurt the right rectus abdominis muscle. That will heal on its own, more or less. What really worries us, however, is your right phrenic nerve.”

Sherlock instantly visualized it in the model of his body he had in his mind palace. The nerve was thin, the chance of it getting hit not very high. He knew his way around anatomy but somehow the implications of that injury refused to come to his mind. He sighed, both inside his mind palace and in real life.

“What are the consequences?” he asked reluctantly.

Now Davies exchanged a look with John before going on. Which could only mean bad news. Sherlock tried to steel himself against the news.

“It caused a paralysis of your diaphragm,” the doctor explained. “Which is why you can't breathe very well when lying down.”

Sherlock swallowed. Thoracic diaphragm, his mind volunteered, thin muscle, separates the thoracic from the abdominal cavity. As the diaphragm contracts, the volume of the thoracic cavity increases, a negative vacuum is created which draws air into the lungs

He had no idea where those lines came from but had the vague suspicion that his mind was quoting Wikipedia. He grunted disdainfully.

Then he concentrated on breathing for a moment. Now that he knew what was happening, he realised that his right lung was not working properly. He tried to take a few deep breaths and failed. A most unpleasant feeling.

“What treatment do you suggest?” he asked after a while, trying hard to sound unperturbed, and failing.

Dr Davies gave him a sympathetic look for the first time. “There is not much we can do, I'm afraid,” he answered, and went on, “There is a chance for the diaphragm to recover on its own but that can take up to two years. If it does not recover, we can perform a diaphragmatic plication, meaning we will kind of gather up the muscle. That will not make it work again but will create something similar to the vacuum the lung needs to function.”

“But we have to wait for two years before we know if it is really paralysed for good, is that right?” Sherlock had to ask.

Davies nodded, “Yes, it is. You will get breathing exercises to help you avoiding pneumonia, but that is more or less it.”

Pneumonia can happen when you do not breathe deeply enough, Sherlock's mind said, sounding very much like Mycroft. He did not have the energy left to growl at it.

Davies was still talking, he realised, but Sherlock did not follow him any longer. He needed to get exercises just to breathe properly. He would have to wait for two years to know if he was damaged for good or not. Would that be before or after the metal plate would be removed from his chest?

“I think we should discuss that later,” John's voice came through to him. He blinked.

“Of course,” the young doctor answered and exchanged an unnerving glance with John. Again, Sherlock lacked the strength to growl.

“There will be someone to see you about recovering your muscle strength and someone else to teach you the first breathing exercises,” Davies explained. “Will you need anything else today?”

“Do you need to see a shrink after all you have learnt today?” Sherlock's mind translated.

“No,” he said, “I've got John!”

Davies exchanged another glance with John and nodded once more. “I'll see you tomorrow then,” he said gently, and left.

Sherlock met John's eyes, seeing them filled with compassion and sadness.

“You knew all that before,” Sherlock stated the obvious.

“Yes,” John answered, his voice almost not trembling, “but hearing it again, seeing you react to it somehow made it more real.”

Sherlock tried to give him at least a little growl but failed. Instead, he just concentrated on breathing for a while.

“I will never forgive her,” he heard John say.

Not knowing how to answer, Sherlock just smiled and kept on breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tons of love for GoSherlocked for her continuing work as beta! I am so happy you are still with me!


	5. Chapter 5

Their togetherness was soon disturbed by Nurse Jacob bringing Sherlock breakfast. John noticed gratefully that it was a mix of light food that could easily be eaten: fruit salad, yogurt in a very heavy bowl that would not tip over, bread sticks. Nothing that needed to be prepared, all stuff Sherlock would be able to eat on his own.

Sherlock eyed it for a moment, then looked at Nurse Jacob, surely deducing something. “You can bring John his normal breakfast too,” he said then, “I won't develop any jealousy about food” John couldn't help but smile at that. He had missed Sherlock more than he dared to admit.

“Gladly,” Nurse Jacob answered, “I am sure Dr Watson is starving.” She winked at John and left, only to return again with a proper breakfast. John gave her a polite smile and pretended to concentrate on his food while secretly watching Sherlock struggling with his. 

It was painful to watch. Sherlock's hand-eye-coordination was not working properly, and both moving his hand to his mouth and swallowing was exhausting for his body. It took only three minutes for Sherlock to let the spoon slip and give up. 

John wondered if he should help him. Dr Davies had been very clear about John not doing that to support his recovery but it hurt him to see how Sherlock -

“Don't,” Sherlock snapped, seemingly knowing exactly what John was thinking. “Don't let your Samaritan instinct interfere with my recovery.”

John nodded. “I'll do my best,” he replied. Then he pretended to concentrate on his breakfast once more, and after a while he noticed Sherlock picking up the spoon again. 

“If you compliment me for being able to eat yogurt, I'll deduce something really embarrassing about you the next time Mycroft is around,”Sherlock threatened. 

John had to smile at that. “I've missed you,” he said then, meaning not only the fifteen days of coma but also the time after his wedding. Sherlock held his glance for a moment, then broke eye contact, looking rather touched. 

“There is nothing left I have not deduced myself,” Mycroft's voice shook them out of that almost intimate moment. John watched Sherlock closely. He looked a bit as if he was happy to see his brother but tried to hide that fact by making a face.

“I doubt that,” John said dryly. He held Mycroft's scrutinising gaze with determination. The other man's eyebrow moved upwards.

“There is no need to impress me further, doctor,” he said then. “I am totally convinced of all your virtues already. Besides, that embarrassing incident when you were thirteen was really easy to deduce.”

For a second, John hesitated. Then he shook his head. “That was a cheap one, Mycroft,” he retorted. “Everybody had an embarrassing incident at the age of thirteen.”

“I hadn't,” Sherlock volunteered, his face completely innocent. “At that age, I have been a dead boring good boy.”

“And I have never been thirteen,” Mycroft waved John's objection away. He turned to face his brother. “It is good to see you awake,” he said. There was something in his voice, something very honest, almost vulnerable, that made John stand up to retreat.

“I think I'll go home to take a shower,” he said to no one in particular, and left the room.

He made it out of the way too familiar wing of the hospital and halfway off the premise of the hospital before an unexpected wave of mixed emotions hit him. It was tiredness, mostly, accompanied by uncertainty and … yes, loneliness.

He had basically been living in that hospital for the last two and a half weeks. Whenever he had left, it had been with the wearying feeling of leaving Sherlock behind, helpless and on the brink of death. 

When he had reached home, he had always been faced with feeling guilty for leaving his pregnant wife alone for so long. Looking back now, he snorted. Who knew what Mary had been doing while he had been by Sherlock's side in hospital.

What had she been doing all day anyway? Had her actions at Magnussen's office been a once in a lifetime thing to do? Or had she been shooting people on a regular base? 

Who was she?

Not just a nurse, that was obvious. Sherlock had mentioned her wearing an assassin's outfit. Was she a professional killer? It was almost impossible to reconcile this information with the picture he had of her in his mind. She had always been so … innocent. Smug, sometimes, and maybe a bit manipulative but surely not a criminal. 

Suddenly he blinked. How come he was sitting inside a car? He must have been lost in thought so deeply that he had stopped a cab and got in without noticing. God, he was really dead tired.

When he reached their … no, his. When he reached his home, he barely made it onto the sofa before his eyes closed on their own accord. Just a moment of rest, he thought, Just close your eyes for a few minutes before you get going again.

He instantly fell asleep.

*** 

Waking up John felt as if he had been hit by a bus. He looked at the clock. It was nearly two pm. He had slept for almost five hours. Too long for a refreshing nap, far too little to make up for the loss of sleep during the last two weeks. His brain felt fuzzy. There was a vague memory of Mary stating that they had run out of coffee. Had she bought a new packet before...?

“No. I had one of my minions buy some two hours ago.” 

John jerked. Mycroft was sitting on the chair next to the sofa, a coffee pot and John's favourite mug placed on the side table. John's heart was pounding in his ears.

“God, Mycroft,” he gasped, neither able nor willing to hide his shock.

The other man just smiled drily. “We have a few things to discuss,” he said, placing a yellow folder on the table. It had the name “Kate Wilson” written on it in tall black letters. John frowned. When Mycroft remained silent, John took the folder and opened it.

There were pictures of Mary, at different ages, with different hair colours and completely different bearings. Most of them were labelled with names he had never heard before. One showed John with her at their second date. 

He swallowed. The first sheet of paper contained her CV. It informed him that Kate Wilson was born in Pretoria, South Africa, in 1974. The only child of a diamond miner that got killed at home in a burglary. Apparently both parents got shot while Kate, aged 14, survived the incident unharmed. 

“Neighbours told the police how tragic it had been that Kate and her parents had had a terrible fight over Kate's boyfriend just two days before they got killed,” Mycroft explained. “The poor girl never had the chance to make peace with them, they said.” 

John looked at him. “You don't imply...” He could not bring that sentence to an end.

Mycroft did not bother to help. Instead he explained, “It was almost impossible to trace her back. Miss Wilson had woven an extremely elegant web of camouflage tactics. That explains how she managed to pass my security check after your first date.” He hesitated, if only for a second, before he went on, “That's an explanation but not an excuse. My deepest apologies for not realising what was going on under my nose.”

John nodded. Since he had no idea what to say, he just let the moment pass. Instead, he went through the folder, reading more and more gruesome details of Kate Wilson's life. She had not been into organised crime, had not been a contract killer, and yet, many people had died around her. 

The boyfriend she apparently had her parents killed for died two months after breaking up with her. He was highly allergic to peanuts and had ordered a meal at an Indian restaurant that accidentally contained traces of them in the sauce. The restaurant was aghast and fired the cook but nobody was arrested for it. It was a tragic accident.

Kate, aged 18 by then, had moved from Pretoria to San Francisco where she had started a relationship with a surfing teacher named Janice Lawrence. The two of them broke up when Kate discovered that Janice had been unfaithful. Janice got killed three weeks later when taking heroin that was mixed with an unknown substance. Her dealer was never caught.

Kate moved to Alberta after that, using her first fake identity, Carol Sawyer, and started another relationship. Her new partner committed suicide, taking sleeping pills and then taking a hot bath. There were clues of him fighting for his life but apparently he did not manage to get out of the bath-tub and drowned.

Carol had visited her best friends at the time. The two friends' inconsistent testimonies had been blamed on the fact that the women had been a little drunk that night.

One year later the two friends of Carol were found dead. They had been shot in the belly at short range. One of them had died instantly, the other one had lived for another three hours, slowly bleeding to death. Carol Sawyer had disappeared that day and had never been found.

Two days later, a Sarah Hutchington moved into a nice little flat in Sydney, Australia. She had fallen in love with another man, Peter Brown, a history teacher. They settled down together and got married. Three years into their relationship Sarah became pregnant but lost the baby just two weeks before she was due.

That loss strained their marriage. About one year after the death of their child, Peter moved out. Six days later he got shot in the head and Sarah disappeared.

John stopped reading closely at that point. He skimmed through the rest of the papers. It had gone on like that until he had met her at the hospital.

John put down the papers. For some reason he could not look at Mycroft but kept staring at the folder instead. “She is a serial killer,” he said after a while. His voice sounded hollow in his ears. 

“And an extremely intelligent one,” Mycroft added. “She always kept a low profile, always moved from one country to the other, always had excellently faked papers.”

Suddenly, John felt ice-cold inside. Almost all of her lovers were dead. All except him and...

“How is it that David is still alive?”he asked.

Mycroft gave him an inscrutable look. “It seems it was the only time she ended the relationship and not her partner. Apparently, she had set her mind on somebody else.”

John swallowed. He knew that Mary and David separated about the time he and Sherlock had started to appear on the newspapers all over the country. So it had not been an accidental encounter at work. She had chosen him long before they had met.

“How much of this does Sherlock know?” John asked. 

Mycroft had the decency to hold John's glance. “I have informed him this morning,” he explained. “He does not know each and every detail but the basic facts.” A rueful frown crossed his face. “My brother does not forgive me for allowing a serial killer of that quality to enter your life. But frankly, neither do I.”

“Does he forgive himself for not noticing?” John wanted to know. 

Mycroft gave him a sad little smile. “What do you think?”

John nodded. Of course he did not. Just like John would never forgive himself for living, heck, for sleeping with her without noticing. Then he remembered a night shortly after Sherlock's return from the dead. John had seriously contemplated leaving Mary to resume his life with Sherlock at Baker Street. Would he still be sitting here if he had really left her? Surely not. How would she have killed him?

Then he thought of Sherlock, lying in his hospital bed, thinking about the same things. Alone. “I think I should return,” he told Mycroft and got up. 

Mycroft nodded but made no attempt to rise as well. John decided not to dwell on it and picked up his jacket. When he was almost out of the door, Mycroft's voice stopped him.

“John!”

He turned around. Mycroft got up and covered the distance between them with a swift move. “I am sorry!” he said, and there was nothing but sincerity and regret in his voice. 

John nodded once more. “She fooled us all,” he offered, knowing it was no consolation at all, neither for Mycroft, nor for Sherlock and himself. Not knowing what else to say, John placed his hand on Mycroft's shoulder for a second, then turned around and left the house without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Susi!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs to sort a few things before the story can gather pace.

Sherlock's first day back among the living was turning out to be a complete disaster.

He was not functioning properly. Neither his hand-eye-coordination nor his muscle power was working the way it had been. The two meals he had tried to have so far were nothing but humiliating. How hard could it be to handle a fork, really?

Then there had been two meetings with therapists. One was called occupational therapy and included lots of mental exercises that should have been simple but were too much for him. The other one was called “light muscle exercises”. It was meant to strengthen his muscles but turned out to be nothing else but a stupid young man pushing and pulling at Sherlock's legs.

Both sessions had left him wretched and exhausted. Sherlock had wanted to yell at both therapists but his speech was still slightly slurry and he could not always remember all the words he needed, so he had decided against it.

And the nightmares … There had been a third today when he had taken a nap after lunch. It had been … In short, learning about Mary being Kate The Serial Killer had done nothing to make the dreams less horrible.

This one had started with John going to see Mary in prison to talk about their baby. After they had been brought into a small room, Mary had started pleading with him not to leave her. John had been completely surprised by that move.

“I love you,” she cried, looking helpless and lost. When she approached him, he stiffened and moved backwards. Not wanting to be touched by her, he kept the space between them, not realising she was slowly herding him into the reach of the prison guard.

When John took one more step backwards and stumbled into him, he even apologised, not understanding what was going on. He looked completely surprised when the guard suddenly reached for him and twisted his arm so he could not move.

Mary grinned at him triumphantly, thanked the guard for his help, offered him more sex in the future should he be of assistance again, and gently stroked John's cheek.

He looked revolted, tried to move away from her but was held in place by the guard. The look on his face made Mary angry. She grabbed him by the hair, forced his face in front of her, and placed a cruel kiss onto his mouth.

John kept fighting the guard, telling Mary to stop that.

“Stop fighting your love for me,” Mary hissed, not sounding lovable at all.

At that, John just spat onto the ground. “I will never love you again,” he stated calmly.

Mary looked completely shocked. “Can you believe that?” she said to the guard and shook her head in anger. Then she cupped John's head with both hands, looked at him with hate in her eyes, and with one cold move she broke his neck.

John's body slacked instantly, his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyes broken. The guard dropped him emotionless. John's corpse hit the ground with a thud, his head coming to rest in a painful angle.

Mary looked down at him. “Idiot,” she said and leaned over the corpse to kiss the guard passionately.

Sherlock had woken up from his stomach revolting at the sight of it. Then it had dawned to him that should he really need to vomit, he would not be able to get to the restroom on his own because he could not even sit up without help.

Shouldn't he be overjoyed to be alive? Instead, Sherlock only felt tired and gloomy.

When the door opened, he was ready to yell at anybody who would dare to talk to him. But instead of a nurse John entered the room, looking glad and apologetic and questioning at the same time, the way only John could, and Sherlock's anger melted into something softer he could not define.

“Hey,” John said, an uncertain little smile on his expressive face.

Sherlock's heart did that thing it often did when John was there, and the last bit of his bad mood vanished.

Which was a pity, for it made space for fear and guilt to crawl into Sherlock's brain. He sighed.

“How are you?” John asked. Apparently he was as uncertain about what to say as Sherlock was. Which for some strange reasons was comforting.

“The blonde nurse is having an affair with the brown haired one,” he answered, which was Sherlock for “I feel terrible but now you are here and I will surely feel better soon.” John definitely understood, for he gave Sherlock one of those precious smiles that really reached his eyes. They had been rare lately, and seeing it made Sherlock's heart leap. Just a little bit.

John sat down on the chair next to Sherlock's bed. Too far away but at least he was there. He had not reacted to Sherlock's speech still sounding wrong by the way, another thing Sherlock silently praised him for.

“So you have heard about Mary's past,” John stated. Sherlock nodded. They looked at each other for a moment.

When John opened his mouth to say something stupid, Sherlock forestalled him, “Don't you dare to apologise for bringing her into our lives again!” He watched John's eyes widen in surprise for a second. A wonderful sight. “I am sorry,” Sherlock went on. “I did not realise that she was a serial killer. Me of all people, can you imagine that?”

John shook his head. “She fooled all of us,” he said, and it sounded like he had said it before earlier today. Must have been when Mycroft had informed him about her earlier today. So Mycroft was blaming himself too.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I am also sorry for the many times I was happy to deal with serial killers,” he added, hating how emotional his voice sounded.

John nodded again, patting Sherlock's arm. “We need to stop apologising. Let's move on instead,” he suggested, his voice incredibly soft.

Sherlock had no idea how to do that but it sounded so good that he agreed.

They both fell silent again afterwards, and for the first time since he had woken up, Sherlock felt free to let his mind wander for a while. He thought about the many times he had honestly been fond of Mary. She had fooled him thoroughly.

To think about what he had given up for her sake. He had come back from Serbia determined to finally confess his love to John but seeing the two of them together, he had decided against it. They had seemed the perfect couple. It had been hard, yes, but he had willingly made that sacrifice to keep both of them happy.

That was why her betrayal at Magnussen's office had stung so much.

Magnussen. He had witnessed every thing. Why hadn't he told anybody?

“Why didn't Magnussen testify it was her who shot me?” he wondered loudly.

John looked at him in surprise. “Magnussen is dead,” he explained then. “He was shot in the head in his office that night. The bullet came from the same weapon you were shot with, so it must have been Mary too.”

Sherlock's stomach leapt. Magnussen was dead. He remembered how he killed him, executed him on his own terrace. He had done it to keep Mary safe, and he had been at peace with doing so. But the feeling of taking somebody's life had been gruesome.

He remembered his horror at seeing Magnussen die by his own hands. He still felt the recoil of the weapon running all through his body. He remembered thinking that if Mycroft's snipers had shot him afterwards, it would not have been injustice in his mind.

But here, in reality, it had not been him who had killed that man. He was not a killer. What a relief.

John watched him questioningly.

Sherlock just shook his head. He could not talk about it, not now. Then, another victim of that day came to his mind. “What about Janine?” he asked.

The look on John's face made him regret the question instantly. “She did not make it,” John said quietly. “She got hit on the right temple with a blunt object, the coroner said. When she collapsed, she must have also hit her head on the desk. Both hits have caused cerebral haemorrhages. They put her in a coma but she died three days later without ever waking up again.”

The memory of Janine telling him smugly about her new cottage came to Sherlock's mind. He had to swallow hard. They had been at peace with each other in his mind. In reality, she died without knowing he was only using her. Somehow it made him feel even more guilty than before.

His eyes met John's. “You really need to tell me about the simulation you ran in your mind one day,” the other man said softly.

Sherlock nodded again. He remembered John beating him up in front of Culverton Smith. How could he ever talk about that?

And why Culverton Smith?

“Does a man called Culverton Smith exist?” he asked.

It got him a more than curious look from John. “Yes,” he answered. “He's some kind of … entrepreneur, you could say. Pretty successful. Does lots of good deeds and stuff.”

Sherlock could hear the unspoken “Why?” but ignored it. Why had he imagined him, of all people? Maybe there was something truly evil about him. Or maybe he was just one of the very few well-known people Sherlock knew. He sighed. There was still a lot of sorting out to do.

They sat together in silence for a while until another therapist told them it was time for another terribly humiliating exercise inflicted on Sherlock. This time, the name of the game was “Sitting up”. It included Sherlock having to flex all his damaged muscles and to use his almost useless arms to stabilize himself. It caused so much pain he almost vomited but did not move his body even close to an upright position.

John heroically pretended to ignore the tears in Sherlock's eyes.

When the terror was over, ending without Sherlock being able to sit up on his own and the nurse stressing that he could indeed have more pain killers if necessary, all Sherlock wanted was to sulk and be ignored by the world.

Instead, his parents chose that very moment to appear, being all loving and caring and making a fuss of his injuries and praising John for always being by Sherlock's side. Sherlock hated how much he loved being treated like that.

And there was more: Why had he imagined a sister?

When his father went to the hospital's cafeteria with John, he decided to find out the blunt way.

“When I was in coma, I imagined having a psychopathic sister I only learned about after being shot,” he told his mother without preamble. “Why did I do that?”

If she was surprised, she hid it well. Instead, she looked thoughtful for a while. “You desperately wanted to have a little sister when you were about four or five,” she remembered. “So did I,” she added after a moment, “but I was unable to have any more children after you. There were complications when I gave birth to you. I almost died, they said, and they had to remove my uterus. So don't worry, there is definitely no secret sister living in our attic.”

She smiled at him sadly, and without thinking, he patted her arm. Well, his aim was still lousy and his muscles weak from that sitting up nonsense but she got the idea and ruffled his hair in return.

“You really need to wash them,” she remarked dryly afterwards.

Sherlock smiled and relaxed into his pillow. No Eurus. No crazy escape room plot on a lonely island prison. No poor -

He quickly went through his memories. Then he sighed with relief. Redbeard had really been his dog. No poor little boy killed by a psychopathic primary school girl.

He felt himself relaxing further. His mother changed the topic, chatting about nothing at all, and when his father and John came back, the three of them engaged in some boring small- alk Sherlock could not really follow.

He started to feel tired. A dreadful feeling. Because sleep meant nightmares. He had dreamt of John dying each and every time he had fallen asleep after waking up from coma, and something told him that tonight, it would happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, GoSherlocked.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nightmares get worse. Be warned if extensive mentioning of character death trigger something for you.

This time Sherlock instantly knows it is a dream. Baker Street is furnished slightly wrong, the way it is in his mind palace so he can always distinguish vision from reality. His chair's colour is one nuance darker than in reality, the books on the shelf are in alphabetical order, the knife that pins down the letters is an African hunter's knife. 

John is sitting opposite in his chair. 

Sherlock's first instinct is to open his mouth, tell John it's not real but when he tries to, nothing happens. Apparently, he does not have any control over himself in this dream. Being a lucid dreamer most of the time, he finds this experience slightly interesting.

John looks around and smiles. “It's good to be back home,” he says, and Sherlock's heart secretly swells with happiness. 

Of course he does not let it show. Instead, he makes a joke about it being John's turn to do the dishes for the next three years, and John grins at that. 

Then, there is a sound that does not belong to Baker Street. It is barely audible. Sherlock rises to locate the source of it, and after a second, so does John. 

“We should get out of here,” he says, becoming Captain Watson instantly. 

Sherlock nods in agreement, always willing to follow John the Soldier in case of emergency. They move towards the door when the sound gets louder. “A bomb,” Sherlock remarks. Unnecessarily, for John has already identified the sound as well. They both increase their speed when the sound gets more urgent. 

The bomb is about to go off, and they are too far away from the door to make it out in time. Without thinking, Sherlock changes direction, moving towards John to block him from the explosion. 

Funnily, John mirrors his moves, apparently with the intention of blocking Sherlock from the explosion. Idiot! Before they can reach each other, a deafening thunder rolls over them and pushes them to the ground. 

Sherlock gasps for air. His entire front is in pain, burning, his body pierced with a thousand knives. He looks down his body and sees blood. So much blood. He feels dizzy, and thirsty, and he cannot force his lungs to breathe slowly. Agony is almost overriding his brain. 

John! Where is he? With an insane amount of willpower, Sherlock pushes himself up far enough to search for -

John. 

God no.

John is lying not far from him but out of reach. He is covered in blood, gasping for air too. He is looking around frantically until his eyes meet Sherlock's. 

They look at each other, and Sherlock can see his own impending death in John's eyes. That idiot. He should be more concerned about the fact that he is fatally wounded as well!

Sherlock's arms give in, and he collapses to the ground. His eyes are still fixed on John who does not look away either. He watches John trying to speak, his mouth moving, not a single sound coming out of it. Seeing that hurts more than the hundreds of metal splinters that are slowly killing Sherlock.

The pain increases but he ignores it. He will not force John to watch him die. He will hold on until John is -

It is unthinkable, and yet it is happening right in front of his eyes. Sherlock cannot help but groan when waves of pain move through his entire body. He looks at John and feels guilty for this emotional outbreak, and rightfully so. John's face shows his terror so openly he can barely stand it. 

Then John chokes, on his blood most likely, and closes his eyes for a second. You can see how hard he is fighting to open them again. His breath is becoming more shallow and Sherlock can read in his eyes that he slowly realises that he, like Sherlock, is about to die. 

His expression changes, becoming apologetic. 

Sherlock shakes his head. Don't be sorry, you fool, he tries to say without words. He tries for another deep breath, God, he really needs oxygen but instead he coughes violently. There are little droplets of blood on the carpet now, and he can taste iron on his tongue. 

Then a sound emerges from John's throat and Sherlock's blood freezes. It is a mixture of gasping and retching. Panic is in John's eyes now. He tries to breathe but that only repeats that horrible sound. It is the sound of John dying.

Sherlock feels the tears running down his cheeks. He opens his own mouth, tries to say something, to soothe John, or to stop him from dying, or to yell at him, but he cannot make the slightest sound. He tries to stretch out his arm, to reach for John, to gently stroke him, or to shake him, or to grab him to prevent him from slipping into death but he cannot move.

He can only look at John.

John is making that sound again, for the third time now. Sherlock feels his own strength draining. There is darkness lingering at his peripheral vision. He looks at John, silently telling him that it is all right to give in now, even though it is breaking his heart.

He cannot tell if John, John who always seems to know what Sherlock is thinking, except when he is thinking about love but it is better that way, definitely, for -

Sherlock is aware that his thoughts are getting incoherent. 

He forces himself to focus on John once more. One final time, most likely. It is so painful to see him dying. 

Their eyes lock once more. John is trembling. It won't be long now. He opens his mouth and emits the worst sound Sherlock has ever heard. It is a mixture of blood-filled lungs and tremendous pain, a shrill groan, the knowledge of death.

John fights it, so hard, but to no avail. His body that has been trembling before starts to convulse. Sherlock wants nothing more than to close his eyes, to look away but he won't. John's eyes are still fixed on him. The horrible sound slowly changes, becoming a soft, high-pitched moan. The convulsions slowly die. John's eyes lose focus, then fix on Sherlock again, then lose focus once more. 

His breath becomes ragged, then he starts to open and close his mouth, trying to inhale in vain. His eyes focus on Sherlock's one last time. He is sorry. Not for himself but for Sherlock. He is sorry Sherlock has to see this.

Sherlock tries to scream at him, to tell him it's all right, to reprimand him for such stupid emotions, to offer the slightest bit of comfort, but of course he can't.

Instead, he can only watch as John's pupils grow larger when his body finally gives in. He watches John's mouth slowly falling open, watches his neck becoming slack, making his head roll slightly to the right. He listens to the last futile gasp, watches John's breast stopping to move. He watches a final tremor running through John's entire body. 

And then he watches John's eyes, John's lovely expressive soulful eyes, widen even more, slipping away. He watches until the last spark of life is gone.

And then, instead of finally dying himself, he is forced to stare and stare at the corpse of the man he loves. Please, God, let me die, he thinks. But even though he can barely breathe, death won't come. Agony is burning, his ears are ringing, but he still stares and stares. 

When his body finally starts to cramp, when he inhales without getting any air, when it feels like he is drowning in water but it is only the blood inside his lungs, he welcomes death gladly. He closes his eyes -

\- and wakes up with a violent jolt. The night nurse is leaning over him, holding his head. “Do you hear me, Sherlock?” she asks insistently.

Sherlock needed a long moment to realise he was awake now. In the beginning he had known it was a dream but somehow that was forgotten after the explosion. He gasped for air, trying to calm down. Only a dream. Only another brutal, cruel, devastating dream. 

He tuned the night nurse out, hid in the most sacred part of his mind palace, and slowly cried himself back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GoSherlocked, I cannot thank you enough!


	8. Chapter 8

When John came to the hospital the next morning, he was greeted by a nurse who was close to tears. “He is not in a good mood” she sniffed. John apologised for him the way he always did before he carefully entered the room.

Sherlock was engaged in a fierce discussion with Dr Davies and did not notice John at first. That gave John a moment to watch his friend. His helplessness was unnerving. He was still not able to sit up on his own, that much was clear to John's trained eyes. 

There were dark circles underneath his eyes. Did he have another nightmare? They did not really talk about them, but it seemed like they were mostly about John dying. He remembered the night after Sherlock had fully woken up from coma, when they had called him back to hospital to help calming Sherlock down. 

John was ashamed because he had secretly enjoyed holding Sherlock in his arms like that. He shook off the thought. “Good morning,” he said innocently, interrupting the discussion that was going on between doctor and patient.

“Finally, someone with a minimum of common sense,” Sherlock exclaimed theatrically. John tried to suppress a grin. 

Dr Davies – bless that man's patience – smiled at him too. “Mr Holmes is having doubts concerning his current therapy plan,” he explained diplomatically. Sherlock just snorted.

“What's wrong with it?” John asked. That launched Sherlock into another tirade about how he was not making any progress, how the exercises were both too stupid and too hard at the same time, how the therapists were all idiots, and so on.

It was good to hear that Sherlock's pronunciation was almost back to normal, John thought relieved. Then he decided to stop Sherlock's harangue. 

“Maybe we you conclude this talk another time?” John asked, and Dr Davies nodded.

“Of course.” He gave Sherlock another honest smile that was not appreciated at all, and left.

When Sherlock opened his mouth again to complain about this or that or something, John cut him short. “Tell me about your nightmare!”

That got him an astonished glance. Then suddenly Sherlock seemed to lose all the strength his anger had given him. He slipped deeper into his cushion. He paled, which made the rings underneath his eyes look even deeper.

“I can't,” he tried to sidestep the talking but John would have nothing of it.

“How did I die this time?” he asked bluntly. 

Sherlock's eyes widened for a second. Then he seemed to crumble even more. 

“An explosion at Baker Street. At least this time, I died shortly after you did.”

John swallowed. What should he say to that? He had no idea, so he patted his friends arm and looked around the room just to avoid Sherlock's questioning glance. Then he had an idea.

“Do you want me to stay during your therapeutic sessions today?”

Sherlock looked relieved. “Brilliant idea,” he said, smiling a little. “At least I won't be the only one to tell them how stupid their exercises are!”

The problem was, as John found out shortly afterwards, that the sessions weren't stupid at all. And while occupational therapy showed clear improvements in speech and short-term memory, the physical training was a disaster. Sherlock's muscles were so weak he could barely move his arms and legs on his own, and all attempts of sitting up failed. 

That combined with Sherlock's non-cooperation made that session the most frustrating thing to watch.

The sessions were followed by a lunch Sherlock was barely able to eat without spilling it all. When it was finally over, he looked more exhausted than ever.

“You should take a little nap,” John suggested.

Sherlock's face darkened. “No,” he snapped.

Of course, the nightmares. John silently cursed himself. “Look,” he offered, “why don't I stay here while you sleep? I'd be around to prove I am still alive as soon as you wake up.”

Sherlock harrumphed at the idea but John would have nothing of it.

“You need sleep!” he said matter-of-factly. They engaged in a staring duel and John did his very best not to think too much about how beautiful Sherlock's eyes were. It took him some willpower.

In the end, Sherlock was the first to look away. “Fine, fine,I will sleep!” he declared theatrically and pointedly closed his eyes.

John had to smile a little for Sherlock looked absolutely endearing when pouting. He pulled his chair next to the bed and watched his friend slowly relax into his cushion. Only when he was sure Sherlock had fallen asleep he allowed himself to think about the fact that after all those years, after all that had happened, he was still very much in love with that man.

He watched Sherlock's face, pale but peaceful at least for the moment, and had to resist the urge to touch his cheeks. Yes, he was in love. Would that love ever be requited? Very unlikely. He sighed, leaned back into the chair and watched over Sherlock's sleep.

*** 

In his dream, Sherlock is sitting at Angelo's, waiting for John. Keep in mind it's a dream, he tells himself desperately. At the moment, he feels happy and nervous, a good kind of nervous but he knows it is a dream and all his dreams turn into devastating nightmares currently.

He is waiting for John. 

It is a date, he remembers, even though John might not know that just yet. Sherlock had asked him to come here because tonight he will really dare to do it – he will confess his love to John. 

There is a chance that John will not be amused but it is far more likely that they will end up kissing, for the signs John is giving have become more and more clear over the last months.

Sherlock's heart is beating wildly in his chest.

When John comes in he looks breathtaking. The blue shirt matches his eyes, and he is smiling gently. Sherlock melts at the sight of him. 

They greet, John being completely at ease. He either does not know what Sherlock is about to do or he is welcoming the thought. If only Sherlock knew which one it is.

His hands are slightly wet.

Angelo beams at them when he pours the wine into their glasses and Sherlock almost gets lost at how soft John's face looks in the candlelight. Should he tell him right now? No, better have dinner first. Or at least some wine. 

They clink glasses. “To us,” John says and looks deeply into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock has to swallow a lot of wine to compensate the temporary blankness of his brain.

John smiles a bit smugly, which suits him perfectly, and takes a mouthful himself. When he puts down the glass again he frowns. “What - “ he murmurs. Then he looks at Sherlock. He is more confused than alarmed. 

Sherlock does not understand immediately. The wine tasted quite all right, John's favourite by the way. So where is the problem? “Are you all right?” he has to ask John and silently curses himself for not getting what is going on.

John shakes his head. “I don't know,” he answers. Then he pales. 

For some reason he stands up but starts to sway instantly. Sherlock jumps up from his chair, toppling it over in the process but not giving a damn, and catches John when his legs buckle. 

John's face is twisted with pain now. He looks questioningly at Sherlock. “Poison?” he asks. 

Sherlock does not waste any time to answer. John is a doctor, after all, he will surely know whether he got poisoned or not. Instead, he grabs his mobile with his free hand and calls an ambulance.

In the meantime, John leans to the left and vomits. 

There is something wrong with reality, Sherlock realises. There should be at least some of John's vomit running over his own hand now, judging from the angle at which John is lying in his arm. It should smell like vomit too. This should tell him something but again he does not get it.

Instead he focuses fully on John. “Help is on its way,” he tells him. 

Panic is spreading over John's face and he groans.

“Calm down,” Sherlock says, trying to sound as gentle as possible while panicking himself. “The ambulance will be here in no time.”

Then he realises that it will arrive too late. John leans over to vomit again, then falls back into Sherlock's arm. His eyes are staring at a point somewhere on the left. His left hand is clinging to Sherlock's right arm, like to a lifeline. His breathe is shallow. 

The worst part is John's face. The panic is gone, so is the pain. Instead, he looks into empty space with complete indifference. It makes Sherlock's abdomen clench painfully.

John is dying already, and fast.

You need to tell him, his brain urges Sherlock. You need to tell him you love him as long as he can still hear you. He gets dizzy with horror. 

“John,” Sherlock starts. He gently cups John's face with his free hand and moves his head towards him. John's body follows the movement without any resistance, life quickly draining out of him. The indifferent expression on his face does not change at all, and Sherlock is not sure that John can still see him. 

“John, look at me,” Sherlock pleads. He needs to blink away a tear. John's body sinks deeper into his arm. His eyes stare at Sherlock's chest, his breath is barely audible. He blinks, his face now a mixture of confusion and resignation.

“John, I need to tell you -” he starts, and hesitates. Only for a second but John is dying so fast that he does not have any second to spare. His left hand lets go of Sherlock's shirt, falling to the ground. So Sherlock goes on quickly, “I love you!”

There is no reaction, not even a blink. Sherlock's stomach turns into an ice-cold stone. “John?” he asks, trying to move John's face upward a little so they can look at each other.

John's head falls back, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling now. He is dead.

Something inside Sherlock breaks.

“John, look at me!” he shouts. He slaps his cheek, once, twice but to no avail. “I love you,” he repeats frantically, “do you hear me? I love you!”

Of course he knows John is dead, he is not stupid. But he has missed the exact moment of his death, and it feels like he betrayed John one last time. And he does not know if John has heard him or if he was already dead. 

“John, I love you,” he repeats, crying now, rocking the dead body in his arms. He presses John's horribly lifeless face against his chest so he does no longer have to see those empty eyes and rocks him to and fro, to and fro. John's left arm makes a soft thud each time it hits the ground.

“I love you,” he cries, “Please don't leave me. I love you! I love you.” He wants to stop, knowing that he is cradling a corpse but he can't. 

“I love you,” he hears himself cry again and again, “I love you!” 

He cries and cries and cries.

*** 

Only ten minutes after falling asleep Sherlock showed signs of another nightmare building up, John noticed. He moaned in his sleep, his eyes were moving rapidly underneath his still closed eyelids.

“Sherlock?” John asked, “Do you hear me?”

Sherlock did not react. Instead, his moaning grew louder. His head was twitching as if he was trying to pull himself out of the nightmare but he did not wake up.

“Sherlock?” John asked again, gently touching his arms.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, still caught in his dream. So it was about him again. A chill ran down John's back. Was he dying again in Sherlock's nightmare?

He softly stroked Sherlock's arms, willing him to wake up. 

Sherlock's murmur got louder, more clearly. “John,” he said, and then, “I love you!”

John froze. For a second, his mind went completely blank. He blinked, not quite knowing what to do now.

Then Sherlock's voice became desperate. “I love you,” he repeated again and again, “Don't be dead, John, please. I love you. I love you!”

He was sounding so broken that John's heart clenched painfully. “Look at me, John please, look at me. I love you!”

It took John a few seconds to react. When his utter surprise made space for rational thought again, he quickly took Sherlock into his arms. “I'm here,” he soothed him, “I'm here, everything's all right, I'm here!”

Sherlock went on crying for a very long time, and John held him and murmured soft words into his ear and stroked the back of his head. “I'm here, I'm fine,” he repeated again and again.

After another while, Sherlock's wailing turned into soft sobs. John kept on murmuring reassuring words into his ear, still rocking him. 

Then suddenly, Sherlock's body stiffened. He stopped following John's rocking movement. The sobs died.

John held his breath for a second. Sherlock had fully woken up. John pushed him away a little, so he could look into his face.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Sherlock was heavily leaning into John's touch, still not able to hold himself upright. Blast that bullet!

Sherlock did not answer immediately. Instead, he watched John questioningly as if trying to deduce something very complicated.

“I talked in my dream,” he stated. His face turned red.

John quickly contemplated what to say. He was so used to ignore his feelings for Sherlock that he almost denied them out of habit. But why should he? Feeling very bold, he nodded, “Yes, you did.”

Sherlock's face turned into an even deeper shade of red. 

John waited for another reaction. When there was none, he went on, “Was it the truth? What you said?”

Sherlock stared at the floor. “Yes,” he whispered.

John's heart jumped. A wave of happiness floated through his body. Sherlock loved him.

He felt a grin spreading over his face. Sherlock saw it, too, and opened his mouth, surely to say something entirely stupid. He would not let that happen, John decided, and because he still did not have any idea of what to say, he quickly leaned forward and kissed Sherlock.

At first it felt like Sherlock was trying to move backwards, away from the kiss, but then John felt him relax, leaning forward instead, and then he opened his mouth and kissed back.

What a wonderful kiss it was! Slow and gentle and completely perfect. 

After another moment, Sherlock broke the kiss and let himself slump against John's body. “John,” he whispered, sounding astonished and pleased.

John embraced him. “I feel the same,” he said softly.

They stayed like that for a long time, just holding each other. Then John felt Sherlock's body growing heavier in his arms. “You're exhausted,” John stated, silently cursing himself. He should have thought about the state Sherlock's body was in. Still suffering from the gunshot with all its consequences.

He gently lowered Sherlock back onto the bed. Since he was reluctant to let him go completely, he took Sherlock's hand in his own. 

Then he watched his friend – his lover – closely. He looked like hell, dark circles underneath his eyes, and yet, there was a small, marvelling smile around his mouth. 

“You love me,” Sherlock said, and shook his head in amazement.

John leaned forward and simply kissed him again. Sherlock gave him a groggy smile. His eyes fluttered, and he slipped back into sleep.

John kept sitting on his bed, stroking the back of Sherlock's hand with his thumb. When he became sleepy too, he slipped into his chair, the very chair he had spent most of the last three weeks in, reached for Sherlock's hand again, and allowed himself to fall asleep, still holding hands with him.


End file.
